


Details

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Neevebrody Fandom Forward Auction, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese notices many things, many of them pertaining to Harold Finch. But the observing has an effect on the observed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenic/gifts).



> ...the prompt was 'details.'
> 
> Beta and furniture research by Mischief. 
> 
> Spoilers for everything up to the end of S2.

_"Some of us don't get to grow old with the one we love. If you ask me, Lou is the luckiest guy I know."_

The yellow curtains had never faded from John's memory, or the scratchy feel of the polyester bedspread at Playa Mujeres, or the silk of Jessica's hair brushing his shoulder as John watched the news report, first in annoyance at the interruption, then in growing shock and horror. The images were embedded in the backs of his eyes—boiling clouds of gray-black smoke and the shocking red-orange bloom of burning jet fuel as the second plane hit.

He didn't have the ability to forget.

::: 

By the third time John caught Finch staring at the old photo, John's sympathy had twisted into something resembling irritation. 

The snapshot was the same as the one Grace Hendricks had framed in her apartment. It was risky, John knew, for Finch to have it on his computer. Root had already gained access to Finch's network once; by keeping it there, Finch was keeping an exploitable connection to Grace.

But John didn't say anything, just dropped their breakfast on the desk; it was his turn this morning, and he'd chosen Meyer lemon yeast doughnuts, light and fluffy and slightly tangy. 

Finch minimized the window and said, "We have a new Number, Mr. Reese. It's in Queens."

John went to the board to take a look, the afterimage of Finch's smile, broad and just slightly sappy, tugging at his mind.

:::

Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen—John counted off the last shot and then ran across the yard and slammed the Glock 19 out of Jamisky's hand, glad his eyes hadn't failed him in the shadows and it wasn't a Glock 17. Three quick punches put Jamisky down, and then John zip-tied him securely before going back and digging around until he found his own weapon, lost when Jamisky had released the arm of the front loader. It was duck and roll or get crushed.

_"Are you all right, Mr. Reese?"_

"Yeah, Finch. Jamisky's down for the count. I'm going to go find our wayward union organizer."

John located Raimes tied up in the trunk of Jamisky's car, beaten and unconscious, barely breathing.

And they were way out of Carter and Fusco's jurisdiction. "Finch, get the cops and an ambulance here as quickly as you can. Send them to straight to the parking lot of the yard. Raimes is in the trunk of Jamisky's car."

_"Vocal distortion and burner on a nine-one-one call, coming up."_

Finch was on top of it. Of course he was. John stayed with Raimes, counting his slow breaths while the shadows lengthened from the claws of the great, silent beasts around them—the cat loaders and the hydraulic excavators with their long arms angling toward the sky.

"Raimes is running out of time, Finch." John's worry edged his voice.

_"Soon, John. They're three minutes away. They've been told where to find him."_

Finally, John heard the ambulance siren in counter harmony with a fire truck, and he gave Raimes a pat and faded out southward and back toward Manhattan.

:::

"Raimes made it, John," Carter said. "He regained consciousness this morning." 

"Thanks for looking into it for me."

She shook her head. "No problem. What's another favor?"

"Hey—I bought you coffee." 

"This? This is crap coffee." She pushed her cup away with a disgusted face. 

"Yeah, well. You shouldn't be drinking coffee so late anyway. You need your sleep." Carter did look tired—the skin rimming her eyes was almost purple.

"It's not coffee keeping me up."

John waited, and eventually she sighed and tapped her nails on the diner table.

"It's Taylor. He's finally figured out he's a teenager."

"Oh, he has, huh?"

"Yeah. Nothing I can't handle, so don't go getting ideas in your head." 

"I wouldn't think of it." John paused. "But you know I'm here."

"Yeah, John. I know."

:::

Finch looked pissed off. "I'm merely saying the account is there for you to use. To what purpose are you engaging in these antics—"

"I'm keeping my skills sharp." John took a bite out of his apple and chewed thoughtfully. Mr. Nguyen had changed his supplier again and not for the better. "Picking the pocket of a pickpocket takes some fast fingers."

Finch rolled his eyes, a rare event. John hid his smile behind his apple and looked around. There were two new books on the desk at Finch's right hand— _Applied Cryptography: Protocols, Algorithms, and Source Code in C++,_ and _The Changing Light at Sandover,_ by James Merrill. John made a mental note to pick up a copy of the second one. He wasn't much for poems, but maybe Finch was leaving him a clue.

Bear made a whining sound, and John finished up his apple and tossed the core across the room into the garbage can for two points.

"Bear, _hier,_ " he said, bundling up, and they went for a walk.

The park on a Saturday afternoon was busy with optimistic revelers despite the overcast sky. Barbara, a woman whose golden retriever had befriended Bear, gave him a friendly wave, and John released Bear to join Sasha in play. 

Barbara came over, ball-stick in her hand. She had, John thought, dismissed John and Finch as a dotty older couple, although she sometimes gave John a dubious look as if she hadn't quite categorized him. He supposed it was because he'd lost the habit of smiling enough, or easily. He tried now, and her expression eased.

"Looks like rain," she said. "I feel lucky I dragged us out here in time."

"Yup."

"Why is it always on the weekend, right?"

John was pretty sure he'd introduced himself as John Warren to Barbara, which meant a nine-to-fiver, so he nodded in commiseration, but his eye was on the chestnut vendor, whose attention seemed altogether too often on them and not on his small trio of customers. 

Bear came charging up with the tennis ball, Sasha in hot pursuit. Barbara used the ball-stick to pick it up, commenting on how slobbery it was.

John cased the rest of the park rapidly in case Chestnut was working in tandem with someone else. From what Carter had told them, the FBI was no longer after the Man in the Suit, and John was pretty sure Mark was the only one in the CIA who had a hard-on to come after him, so that left the other government agency, unidentified, who'd tried twice now to kill him.

He looked back over at Chestnut, who caught him looking this time and glanced away.

Barbara threw the ball again for the dogs; so far, Bear had beaten out Sasha every time, but Sasha didn't seem to mind at all.

"You noticed, huh?" Barbara said. "He has a bit of a thing for me."

"Sorry?"

"Ivan. The guy selling roasted chestnuts. I've stopped buying any, which is a pity because they're so good on a cold day. But he's a little creepy with the 'honey' this and the 'sweetheart' that. And he won't stop staring at me."

"Well, that's pretty rude," John said. "You should be able to buy some chestnuts without being harassed."

"You would think," she said. "Especially since I'm not available right now."

"But even if you were."

"Right." And for once she smiled at him openly. She paused to scoop up the ball and hurl it. She had a pretty good arm, John noted. He took another quick look around the park, seeing a bunch of students on a blanket reading books; an older black gentleman in a suit sitting on the bench, wearing white earbuds and doing a puzzle in the newspaper; a young white girl playing with a miniature poodle of some kind; two Latino kids playing Frisbee with an older man watching them from a bench nearby; and off in the distance a tall, pale, red-headed guy was running what looked like shake-n-bake drills in the grass.

"John—sorry to be nosy, but are you and Mr. Wren seeing each other?"

John blinked himself out of surveillance mode and turned toward Barbara. "No, we aren't. I'm not available, either." He tried a smile. "I lost someone," he said, something cold and heavy sinking into his stomach as he spoke. He'd never told anyone. Not even Joan. And Finch, of course, already knew—he'd told John in numerous ways he already knew everything. Which meant Finch didn't want to hear what John felt about it.

"I'm so sorry," Barbara said, and put a hand on his arm. Just a quick touch.

He managed not to startle, but it was a near thing. A few seconds later, Bear and Sasha came bounding back to drop the slobbery offering at Barbara's feet, and the moment was broken.

John wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

The gray skies finally gave in to the promise of rain, and after an awkward farewell, Barbara and Sasha left. 

John stopped by the vendor cart on the way out of the park for a packet of chestnuts and a few pointed words.

:::

Surveillance of their latest Number, Carlo Romano, involved a laborious stakeout only semi-shielded from the chilly rain. John snapped the photos as quickly as he could then hurried back to the library to change.

"He looked nervous but not under immediate threat," John said, stripping out of his coat and jacket. He was wet all the way through, and in deference to Finch's presence waited to finish the debrief before taking off the rest of his things.

Finch eyed him and then waved his hand. "Get changed. We'll need to dig deeper."

John faltered in his step as he walked away, caught by something in Finch's tone, or perhaps the look in his eyes, but it was too faint to grab hold of properly, and shrugging, John let it go.

:::

"But it was right here," Finch said, sounding aggrieved as he dug through the stack of papers on his desk.

John sighed and went over to the cork board, bent over, and unpinned the print-out of the receipt before bringing it back and dropping it on the back of Finch's searching hand.

"Oh. But how did you—?" Finch raised his head stiffly to glare at him.

"I saw it at some point."

"You saw it." Finch's voice was level, hiding some thought process John wasn't privy to.

"At some point, I must've, yeah." 

"Hmm." Finch looked down at the receipt and then said, "Ah! Look—the address is the same one Mr. Romano visited on the very same day. They must have crossed paths." Finch nudged at the bridge of his glasses. "I believe this bookmaker, Helen Verner, plans to do harm to our Mr. Romano."

"Then I'm on." John grabbed his coat, noting as he did so that Finch had changed pocket squares at some point during the day. And the room smelled a little funky. "Are you feeling…okay?"

"What?" Finch blinked, his eyes going wide.

"It's a simple question, Finch. Do you have a cold or something? That's a different handkerchief." 

Finch's cheeks went pink for some reason. "No, I merely spilled something—that's irrelevant. You noticed my pocket square?"

"I notice everything." With that, John grinned and headed out to stop a killer.

:::

Eight steps across. Yet the outside of the office was at least twice that, maybe thirty-two feet, which meant a hidden door somewhere. 

"I think she's got a secret back room or something. Hang on."

John let his eyes wander over the bookshelves, the desk and side stand, the carpet, the wall molding, the couch, the ugly painting of the horseman and hound, and then he closed his eyes and saw them again, felt the itch and wandered over to where the carpet had a deep impression, a rut. He fingered the impression and then leaned over and pushed the side stand over a few feet until it sat in the rut. Then he stepped on the table and ran his fingers over the top of the bookshelf until he found a button.

He pushed it, and it clicked. "I'm in, Finch," he said softly, then stepped down and pulled his weapon before swinging away the bookshelf like a heavy door.

A quick sweep revealed the room was clear, but there was plenty here of interest. John got to work plugging Finch into the computer per instructions and then did a scan of the papers on the desk and the contents of Verner's top drawer. Asthma medication, diuretics, lip balm, office supplies, a set of keys, junk, more junk, flash drives—which he pocketed—and a slip of paper with a series of numbers and letters. 

He read that off to Finch, then moved on to her file drawer and discovered it was locked. A simple application of a mini-crowbar and some elbow grease later and he'd found the mother lode—stacks and stacks of files and ledgers. He flipped through the oldest ones before pulling out his bag and stuffing them all in for transport.

Finch chortled in his ear that he was 'in' as well, and that he was dumping data to the hard drive John had connected.

Time was of the essence—there had been no way to disguise he'd broken in, and neither of them knew when Verner was returning. So far, they had nothing on her to connect her with a crime, just supposition. John spent the time in wait checking around for any additional secret hiding spots, looking under the desk, the couch cushions, behind the painting—still ugly as sin. He pushed up the ceiling tiles above the desk and anything that could take his weight, but found nothing else of interest. 

As soon as Finch gave the go-ahead, John disconnected the drive and shoved it into his bag next to the files. He slipped out by the bookcase and pushed it home with a click, then replaced the side stand.

On the street, he pulled the electrical tape off the old-school CCTV camera and headed in the opposite direction toward Lexington. He'd walk a few blocks before hailing a cab. 

"I'll be back in about twenty. Did you get anything useful off her computer?"

_"Oh, yes. Her latest online ledgers should keep me busy for a while. We can easily use this to blackmail her into backing away from Mr. Romano, although I'd prefer a paper trail for evidence."_

"I grabbed the hard copies of her older files going back to 1981 or so. She apparently took over from Philip Giaccone of the Bonanno crime family."

 _"Really."_ Finch sounded surprised and delighted. _"Well done, Mr. Reese. We'll have to take her out of the picture entirely."_

"It will be a pleasure."

:::

This was one of the more satisfying parts of the job, John thought, watching the news that evening from a bar on the Lower East Side—seeing Helen Verner being pushed into the back of a common police cruiser with handcuffs on her wrists. They handled her gently in deference to her age, but with multiple counts of tax evasion, racketeering, murder, and attempted murder as the charges, the cops weren't showing a lot of sympathy, either. Apparently, Vice had been after her for a long time, and the evidence Finch had passed on to them was a veritable gold mine. 

_"Verner was foolish to rely on the secrecy of her hideaway to keep the details of her dealings secure."_

John touched his earpiece and said into his beer, "Finch. Kinda busy."

 _"I was expecting you to return after delivering the parcel to Detective Fusco, actually."_ Finch's voice was flat and held a note of something. Disapproval? Disappointment? 

"I'll be back in a bit." He flicked off his earpiece. Of course, that wouldn't stop Finch if he was determined, but John raised his hand for another beer and turned back to his silent companion. "Where was I?" It was good to have someone to talk to. "Right. I got some leave finally and came back to New York, but when I visited her old job, her co-worker told me, she told me..." Maybe this was wasn't such a good idea after all. 

His listener stared at him with glossy black eyes, silent and watchful. 

"Well, she was dead. She'd died in a car accident. That's what I was told, anyway. But I couldn't believe it, you know?"

_"Mr. Reese. What are you doing?"_

Damn Finch and his sneaky ways. John almost snorted his drink out his nose. "I'm just telling my friend, Angus, here, a tragic tale."

_"And who is 'Angus?'"_

"He's a very handsome moose head. I think the owner shot him up in Canada." John gave Angus' nose a pat. "Sorry about that, Angus."

 _"Don't you think it might be time for you to return to the library, John?"_ Finch now sounded impatient.

"Oh, no. Someone should hear this story, don't you think? And since you never seemed willing to hear it—"

_"I told you, Mr. Reese—I already know everything—"_

John controlled his voice with some effort. "Jesus Christ. No, you don't. You know, you can be pretty arrogant sometimes."

 _"I'll grant you that,"_ Finch said, voice subdued.

"You don't know what I said to her the last time I saw her. You don't know how shitty it feels to be right about it, either."

 _"All right."_ A pause. _"What did you say?"_

But John's throat backed up on the words. The bartender came by then, bringing him a fresh draught and granting him a reprieve. After he left, John took a long sip, then looked up at the ceiling. He could see it, every detail as crisp as if it were yesterday: her white wool coat and the gold beads of her necklace; her bright smile as yet undimmed by disappointment.

"Her shirt was the same slate blue as the carpeting of the airport. She was wearing an engagement ring but she told me if I asked her to wait, she would." His throat hurt. "I told her in the end we're all alone, and no one's coming to save you."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"And I was right. I didn't save her." He took another sip of his beer, but it tasted too bitter, so he set it down. "I can't ever forget that, any detail. I don't need a picture to remind me, Finch."

_"John—"_

"But if you want to keep staring at Grace's picture, then remind yourself of the rest—she's still alive, painting, living her life. You saved her by leaving her. I only killed Jess by doing the same thing."

_"You should know that wasn't your fault."_

"Oh, it was. It really was." John closed his eyes and was assaulted by grainy video images—a garden party, and Peter Arndt's heavy hand on the back of Jessica's neck. "But the point is, you should appreciate your good fortune, Finch."

 _"I assure you, I don't need you to tell me that. I already do."_ Finch was indignant.

"I don't think so." Maybe it was the beer talking, but John couldn't let it go unsaid. "Why do you still have that picture on your drive? What if Root had grabbed it that time she used the honey pot? What if someone traces the source of those jobs you keep throwing her way? Or if she actually sees you sometime in the park? Hell, we shouldn't even be talking about her right now. You're putting her at risk by keeping any connection alive between you."

 _"None of that is any of your business, Mr. Reese."_ Finch's voice had turned frosty now, each syllable clipped and deliberate. _"And I suspect your motive in mentioning it might be a little self-interested."_

John closed his eyes. "Since you chose to bring that up now, when I've given you no open indication, I'll just have to say, ditto, Mr. Finch. And good night." John tapped off his earpiece, then reached into his pocket and powered down his phone for good measure. He wasn't quite at the point of dropping it in his pint glass, but he was close.

And he was pretty sure he'd made Finch angry enough to force the issue. 

Angus' black eyes stared at John reproachfully, but it had needed to be said, anyway. Finch needed to hear it, if he really cared about Grace. It didn't matter if John's motives were iffy. Finch was too logical to ignore the facts once he got past his anger.

The devil was in the details, and Finch had left a trail of them.

John paid his tab and headed home.

:::

The next morning, John was surprised and relieved to see forgiveness waiting in a small packet of ibuprofen and a glass of cold water by his usual seat in the library, dewy condensation beading the glass. 

He took the pills and slanted a glance at Finch, who was seated at his computer and didn't spare John a look when he delivered his own peace offering: two fresh _pain au chocolat_ and one plain, in case Finch were feeling especially virtuous. 

No number came up, and they had an uninterrupted day, John reading his covert copy of _The Changing Light at Sandover_ , disguised with the jacket of a Margaret Atwood novel. The library was so quiet, John could hear the computer's hard drives as they spun up and down, and the grate of Finch's stuck control key as he tapped away at his computer, occasionally muttering back at the screen when the code didn't behave the way he felt it should. John found his monologue charming, and felt tempted to respond, but was wary of breaking their fragile detente.

Late in the afternoon, Finch surprised him by rising slowly and sighing into a stretch, then saying, "I don't suppose you're in the mood to watch a film?"

John put down his book. He was getting nowhere at all with the dense poem. "Oh, yeah? What film?" He tried to sound reluctant, but he'd even be willing to sit through subtitles at this point.

"Cinema Village is showing _Blade Runner_. The director's cut, of course," Finch added loftily. 

"I'd like that. A lot," John added, too surprised to be circumspect, and Finch's lips twitched. 

"Good. If we leave now, we'll get center seats."

:::

John never saw Finch looking at Grace's picture again; although, to be fair, their lives got pretty busy a few weeks later.

The Machine was crashing.

:::

Finch booked them a private jet on the flight back from Hanford, Washington. John was grateful for the luxury of stretching his aching muscles in the butter soft seats and not having to worry about any threats beyond the too-hot washcloth their steward, Charlie, offered mid-flight. 

But it was more than the adrenaline crash that made John feel cold and uneasy, and once they had privacy, he addressed his lingering guilt.

He took another sip of the fine whiskey Charlie had served him before facing Finch and saying, "I promised I wouldn't let her get to you again. I'm sorry, Finch." An apology was inadequate, but he had nothing else to offer.

Finch lifted his head. "It's not your fault. It's mine, Mr. Reese. I walked into her trap willingly."

"What? Why?"

"Grace's life was at risk."

It explained so much. "Root found her."

Finch nodded stiffly. "I assume my deleting Grace's photo was somewhat in the nature of closing the barn door. Groves must have retrieved it on that first fishing expedition."

John closed his eyes. Finch _had_ deleted the photo, just too late. "What are you going to do?" 

"Preliminary steps are already underway. I've contacted my personal bodyguards and put them on surveillance until I can get a permanent team in place."

So, Grace would live her life under twenty-four-hour watch, like a bug under a microscope, and never even know it. 

"It's my own fault," Finch murmured to himself as if he'd heard John's thoughts. "Security through obscurity is a fallacy; I know that."

The only truly safe alternative would be to relocate Grace entirely. 

They both fell silent as Charlie returned to refresh their drinks. After he left, John took another sip of his whiskey. It went down smoothly—a little too smoothly. He hadn't eaten or slept in longer than he could remember. But this was fine, just fine. John rested his head and closed his eyes. Finch was safe and neither of them was going anywhere for the next six hours or so.

"She probably wouldn't go for it, Finch—giving up her identity and her little apartment on the square with her satin striped loveseats and her Louis XVI chairs—to move to Moscow or Bora Bora. Not without a real explanation."

"I know," Finch said heavily. John heard him shift, then Finch said, more lightly, "You noticed the _furniture_?"

"Yeah. Nice place." John gulped a shot of his drink and rested it on the table between them without opening his eyes. He could feel Finch staring at him.

"Does she still have the glass-front hutch in the corner?"

"Hmm. Edwardian, right?" Jessica was into that sort of thing. "And some sort of drop-leaf table by the window."

"You have an extraordinary memory for detail, Mr. Reese."

John thought he sounded curious. "I remember things."

"Almost photographic."

"Not really. They just trained us to...be precise."

"For example?"

What the hell. He might as well be in for the whole dollar. 

But he kept his eyes closed just in case.

"You wear the brown tweed twelve percent more often than your other waistcoats, usually paired with a yellow or purple tie. Once a week, but always on a different day, you come in smelling like Dragon Well green tea, from when you play mahjong with your buddies in Columbus Park. You prefer chocolate to plain croissants. Red wine over white. Your left earlobe is slightly smaller than your right. It takes you thirteen steps to reach your desk from the gate on a good day, sixteen when your back is acting up." Now John really didn't want to open his eyes, and instead rode the buzz of the whiskey, letting his body relax to hide the tension he was feeling. "I've heard you laugh twenty-two times. You wear boxers on warm days, some sort of briefs on colder ones. And apparently, on occasion, you like to masturbate into your silk pocket square."

There was a long pause, and then Finch croaked, "Extraordinary."

John let his eyes crack open. 

Finch's face was flushed, but he didn't look embarrassed; certainly not as embarrassed as John felt in revealing just some of the surface details he had collected on Finch. 

"You're good at hiding what you feel; should I add that to the list? It didn't seem worth mentioning," John said. "That was only a partial list, anyway." God, he really was drunk. 

"Indeed." Finch didn't sound angry. In fact, he looked...intrigued was the word. His own drink was still in his hand and only half-finished. Red wine, of course, John noted with amusement. 

"You're not angry." John was going to have to gag himself at this rate.

"No." Finch's eyes looked impossibly wide and blue behind those glasses of his. "Are you familiar with the observer effect, John?"

It took a moment for the words to sink past the alcohol. "You've noticed."

"I've...frankly enjoyed being the target of—your regard has had a certain effect on me." Finch's color deepened. "I'm gratified."

"Gratified." Terrific.

Finch pressed his lips together. "When you are feeling particularly frustrated with me, you will wear the slate blue shirt with the black worsted jacket. It...suits you. You prefer very dark French roast, no sugar, no milk. You don't wear cologne—I suspect because of your training. You avoid garlic for the same reason. You are ambidextrous but prefer using your left hand for most tasks requiring fine motor control." Finch's ear tips reddened. "At least, those I've personally observed." 

John coughed an involuntary laugh.

Finch continued, "Your eyes turn the most extraordinary shades of green and blue depending on your moods. I've never quite been able to pin down the exact color."

John swallowed hastily. "Finch..."

"You hide your mouth when you smile."

It was too much. John rose and moved around the table to slide into the seat beside Finch. 

"If we turn off the lights, do you think Charlie up there will leave us undisturbed?"

"Yes," Finch said, "please," whisper-quiet just over the hum of the engine.

John flipped off the lights, first overhead, and then in the seats surrounding them, so they were hidden in an isolating bubble of darkness. 

He found Finch's hand first and took his wine glass to put it on the table. Then John turned on his hip to face him. Finch's hand traveled up John's shoulder to light on his cheek and guide him in.

"Harold," John said, and then they kissed. John was glad for the steady hum of the engines that served to hide the wild pounding of his heart, that drowned out all other sounds. There was only the darkness, the taste of wine, and Harold's lips on his at last, his partner in crime, the first person to see him, really see him, since Jess.

Harold's hand was cool and delicate against his cheek, against the side of John's neck. John fumbled and rested his elbow against the back of the seat to support himself; the other he brushed down Harold's chest to lie just above his heart. 

And still they kissed—John's mouth almost closed, parting only to clasp at Harold's and tug, Harold's tongue tip brushing against sensitive inner seam of John's lips—teasing each other with the hint of more that would come later, in privacy. John's cock got hard anyway, and he pictured making a visit later to the luxurious Gulfstream lavatory and jerking off to the images of just this—Harold's mouth on his, and Harold's fingertips stroking the skin of his collarbone just at the edges of his shirt.

John shuddered and pulled back.

"God, Harold," he said. His fingers clenched in the wool of Harold's waistcoat.

"Well, John," Harold said in return, a smile in his voice. "We didn't do too badly."

John reached down and brushed the back of his fingers over the suspicious hardness at Finch's groin.

Finch gasped.

"Not too badly, no," John said. He could smell the musk of arousal rising from them both, and that trip to the restroom was looking more mandatory by the second.

"I'm starting to regret not having brought a laptop as diversion," Finch said, a bite of acid in his voice. 

Taking a deep breath, John pulled away and sat back in his seat. "Or a good book," John agreed, and he flipped on the lights to remove temptation. 

They blinked at each other owlishly for a moment. Harold's hair, John was amused to note, was looking a little wild, although John didn't consciously remember mussing it up.

"How _is_ your foray into Atwood going?" Finch raised an eyebrow at him. Something in his tone made John frown.

"Uh. Hmm. Truth is..."

"Yes?" How one eyebrow could imply so much, John wasn't sure, but Harold's looked like it was laughing at him.

"I'm not really into poetry, Finch."

"Well, Atwood _is_ better known for her prose."

"Funny. You know I'm talking about the Sandover poem. It's pretty dense going. I can't figure what you see in it. Ouija boards and dead poets talking about angels and biology? Writing in all-caps and texting-speak?"

"Hmm." Finch smiled mysteriously.

"It hurt my eyeballs, Finch."

"Well, I didn't exactly make you read it, Mr. Reese."

John gritted his teeth. "No, of course not." Manipulative bastard. All that awful, impenetrable text. "So, you're not going to tell me why?"

"Oh, I never finished it," Finch said blithely. "Pretentious drivel, really. But did you know James Merrill and his writing partner David Jackson were also life partners for forty years or so?" 

"Ah." John's chest felt warm at the sentiment.

"At the time, it was exceedingly rare for such couples to live together so openly."

"I see." John hid a pleased grin behind his hand, unsurprised to find Harold's eyes on him, catching him doing so. "Well, no book, no computer—what do you suggest we do for the rest of the trip?"

"I don't know about you, John, but I find myself in urgent need of a trip to the restroom." 

This time, John's smile couldn't be contained.

"And then, perhaps, a nap."

He just hoped Finch had thought to bring an extra pocket square.

 

_End._


	2. The Twenty-Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> top-sekrit ultra-mushy coda for Selenic. because of reasons.

John insisted Finch accompany him back to his apartment once they reached JFK, and was glad Finch didn't argue with him, but simply nodded and joined him in the back of the cab. They were both still tired from the previous days' events, but John was on alert once again and didn't relax until the apartment door was shut behind them and the shades drawn.

And then it was somehow both strange and familiar at once to be bumping elbows with Harold at the bathroom sink as they prepared for bed. John was amused at Finch's complaints over his nighttime routine; apparently using Ivory soap to wash his face was on the level of dermal suicide, and his toothpaste was an invitation to gingivitis. But John's heart thumped crazily for some reason at seeing Harold dry his face and then look at him in the mirror, eyes naked without his glasses. Harold smiled quizzically and asked what he was staring at.

 _You. Here. With me._ The words refused to be spoken out loud, but somehow Harold must have heard them, because he smiled again and put on his glasses, saying, "I don't suppose you have a pair of pajamas to spare?"

Which led to John lending Finch a pair of too-large pajamas, the pants comically long, the top so large Harold swam in it. John had to duck down to hide his expression, and he rolled up the cuffs, his heart still dancing an arrhythmia as he let his fingers stroke the fine bones of Harold's ankles in passing.

Then John stood up and stepped into Harold's arms, the soft silk of the pajamas sliding between them as they kissed. 

"Odd, but I'm not feeling terribly tired any longer," Harold said.

"Weird coincidence—neither am I," John said. "But let's go to bed anyway."

John heard Finch laugh for the twenty-third time as he agreed.

 

_End._


End file.
